Why I hate smalltalk.

“What do you do?” is a question I dread.

I do nothing. There you go, you can judge me now. I do nothing. And I am in no particular hurry to change that.

When I get asked what I do or what my plans for the future are, I can decide how I am judged out of two options; lazy or crazy. I can tell people I do nothing and leave it at that (lazy) or I can explain why I do nothing (crazy). I despise the thought of people considering me to be lazy, but I do not go around flaunting the strange ways in which my brain interprets the world. Even some people who know my circumstances think I am just being lazy.

Mental health conditions are trivialised to the extent that the advice I often receive is essentially to shut up with my excuses and do something. They speak as if getting a job would magically make everything better. It will give my life meaning and the depression will go away. It will give me something else to think about so the anxiety will go away. I am completely, totally unconvinced. I am looking for work, yes. But I do not at all feel it will be a magical cure to every problem I have ever had and, contrary to making my imagination calm down, I am rather worried that working might add more things to worry about to my ever-increasing collection.

Whilst writing this I opened a cupboard to get something out, a lipstick tube fell out on me, and now the world is spinning faster, my breathing is irregular and shallow, and I am starting to shiver.

I wish I could make people feel what I feel, think what I think, for even a minute before they ask those questions.


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